


You Showed Me Human Affection, Now I'll Never Leave.

by WhyMustYouDoThisss



Series: Horror Character People That I Love [1]
Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Brahms is a sweetheart, Brahms needs a hug, Breaking and Entering, Doll Brahms, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, How Can Words Be Perceived As Gore though, Hurt/Comfort, I made myself angry by writing this, M/M, Multi, Murderers, Other, Reader is Greedy AF, Sort of a self-insert I think, Stockholm Syndrome, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unintentional Manipulation, Unrealistic Medical Standards, We Kidnap Greta Because I Love Me Some Stockholm Syndrome, could just be read as an oc, reader is an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23721031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyMustYouDoThisss/pseuds/WhyMustYouDoThisss
Summary: A monster stumbled through the woods, bigger and badder than anything you could find. Bleeding out, the monster discovers another monster, hidden behind walls, pretending to be human. Scarred and healing, it latches to the smaller monster, collecting whatever lost souls it could and terminating the rest.OR.Reader is a serial killer who has terrorized all of North America and flees to Europe after almost being caught. They get hurt after slicin' n dicin' some nice family, and find themselves stumbling into Brahms's clutches.
Series: Horror Character People That I Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716097
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	1. If It's So Cold, Then Why Isn't The Rain Snow?

The rain beat down upon my figure as I ran through the night, away from the angry hoard of people. I knew that they were very far back, far enough that I could finally settle down for the night, but risking it didn’t seem like a smart option.

Especially not after seeing the cops in that hoard of people, that would most likely come later to track me with dogs. 

The thick earth crunched beneath my feet, droplets of water landing on my mask as I slowed slightly to look around. As a shiver ran through my figure, finally noticing that it was cold. Too cold. 

I looked down at the wound on my hip, glaring at the gash like it is the one responsible for my lowered core temperature, when in reality it was just cold. 

The wound wouldn’t kill me, but if I don’t find shelter soon, hypothermia might. 

I came to a stop, breathing heavily and listening very carefully. I heard nothing, and as I looked around, nothing suitable made itself prominent in my vision either. 

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, and start walking once again. 

The cold seeps into my fingers and toes as they slowly go numb, and for the first time, I worry that I might not find shelter. It seeps into my very bones, and my wet clothes do me no favors in trying to stay alive. 

After walking for a few more minutes, my mind blank as I follow the trees and forest dwelling beings who were up late at night, a light appears in the distance.

A small, dim light, barely visible through the thick foliage. 

I almost sob in relief, and my body beckons me towards it as quickly as possible. As I approach the light, though, it seems to get much larger and within a few minutes there stands a very large manor in place of the small light. I search for an opening and see a small door that looks to lead to a cellar of some sort. A dark chuckle escapes my throat at the pitiful silver lock on the door. I don’t fiddle with the lock for more than a few seconds before it pops open and the swings open quietly. 

I step into the dusty and dim passageway as quietly as possible and silently shut the door behind me. My eyes wander as my figure drops into a crouch, light shifting in the dim hallway. I creep forward and stay low, inspecting the light. 

I almost laugh as I realize that I am inside the walls of the mansion, but quickly get quiet as one of the boards shifts around a corner from where I am. My body locks in fear and I look that way to see nothing- no shift in light, no dust cloud from movement- nothing but dead air. 

I creep closer to the wall and look through, cocking my head as I watch an elderly couple interact with a small porcelain doll. 

“Brahms, it is time for bed,” the woman says as she picks the small thing up. “You know how cranky you get when you stay up too late,” she scolds lightly. The couple stands and walks out, the light clicking off behind them.

My body is completely still as I listened to them traveling up the stairs, and I wait until I hear two doors close before moving. I let out a heavy sigh and nearly collapsed onto the floor, letting out a hiss at the irritation this causes the wound. 

I slowly pull bandages out of my bag, followed by a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a new pair of clothes.

I bandage it as quickly as I can, biting down on the fabric of my sweatshirt as I drench the wound in the alcohol. I wrap around my hips and waist, roughly to where the wound extends. I peel off my boxers and pants, shimmying on the new pairs as quickly as possible. I throw off my jacket and sweatshirt, tearing off my cold and wet t-shirt. I slip it on before standing and laying out my jacket and sweatshirt. 

The ground is warm, surprisingly, and I lay down with a knife in my hand. My eyes drift closed, but sleep doesn’t claim me quite yet. 

**_Knock. Knock. Knock._ **

I shoot up from where I am as what sounds like the front door is beat on- no doubt people looking for me. I grab my wet clothes, stuffing them into a seperate pocket as the rest of my stuff, before slipping the bag onto my back and venturing farther into the walls. 

Footsteps descend the stairs around the time I get to them, stilling at the noise. I stop to listen as the man of the house scolds the police officer for being so loud. 

“Haven’t you any idea what hour it is?” He exclaims, sounding more startled than anything. 

“I am terribly sorry to bother you Mr.Heelshire, but I need to know if anybody has come here looking for shelter.” I continue through the walls, ignoring the rest of the conversation. 

I eventually come to another staircase spiraling up, and quietly ascend it. 

I find myself at a door, and quietly push through, knife in hand. 

The room is lit, and that in itself is a red flag. My fingers tighten around the blade as my eyes wander the room. 

There is a bed in the corner that looks like somebody had just gotten up, and with a small touch, discovered it’s still warm. There is a fridge and sink in the room at the end of the bed, and my face twists in confusion. There are full bookshelves all over the room, and a desk with crafting and drawing materials. 

There is nobody in the entire room, but I do discover a ladder that leads up and down, most likely to other parts of the house. 

I freeze in fear as I stand in the room in the walls. ‘ _ What the hell is going on here? _ ’ 

“ _ What are you doing in my room _ ?” A little boy's voice rings throughout the room and I spin around, a growl on the tip of my tongue. 

Oh.  _ Oh.  _

A man with a mask, in a pea green cardigan and white tank top coupled with ill-fitting pants and suspenders. He had to be close to six foot, and that alone made me very wary. 

He was lean, and his breathing was heavy behind his mask. 

My breathing was heavy behind mine. 

“ _ What are you doing in my  _ **_room_ ** ?” His voice sounds more like a man trying to imitate a child now, though it drops into its full deep tone as he gets angry. 

“Hiding.” I answer quietly, my head cocking at him. “Who are you?” He lunges at me, causing me to dodge to the left, wrapping an arm around his neck while clambering onto his back. I throw my weight back, bringing both of us to the floor with a thump. I scramble on top of him and press my knife to his throat as I look into his shocked eyes. 

“Why did you do that?” I growl, reaching up to fix my mask. 

As my eyes travel back down to him, I examine him closer. His hair is a medium length and messy, swept out in a halo-like circle around his head. His eyes are a dull green, and filled with anger. 

“ _ Why are you doing this?”  _ His voice is back to that of a little boy. 

“I like your mask,” I ignore his question. “Did you make it yourself?” 

He nods shakily at that.

“You can stop shaking. I know you’re faking the fear.” He growls and tries to grab me, but I press the knife further into his neck. 

“I need a place to stay for the night, is all. I needed to get inside before I died of hypothermia. I don’t want to hurt you, pretty boy.” He shudders at the nickname, causing me to chuckle. “You okay there, pretty?” His pupils dilate slightly and he flips me, knocking the knife from my hand. 

My breathing speeds, eyes searching for an out. I see none, but as he holds down both my hands and reaches for my mask, I snarl at him. 

“Let me  _ go! _ ” I cry out, thrashing in his hold. “Don’t fucking touch my mask!” 

“ _ You’re in my room. I can do what I want,”  _ He answered simply in his childish voice. His hand brushes my mask and I bring my knee up as hard as physically possible, straight into his stomach. I throw my head forward, nearly knocking both of our masks off. 

He scrambles back as he cries out a  _ ‘dont look!’  _ and I almost feel bad. He fixes his mask and I fix mine, grabbing my knife and standing. 

The door is right behind me, and I stare at him. He looks up at me with a look in his eyes similar to betrayal, and this time I  _ do  _ feel bad. 

“I’m sorry for messing up your mask,” I mumble out. “Isn’t nice, is it?” I snap out after, though. 

“ _ That hurt _ ,” he growls out in an almost-adult voice. 

“It was meant to.” I look around before sighing. “I need a place to stay tonight. Can I stay here?” His eyes narrow into a suspicious glare, and I shrug. “If I was going to kill you, don’t you think I would’ve done it when I had a knife to your throat?” He looks to the ground in contemplation. 

When he finally looks up to meet my eyes again, I almost jump at the suspicious glare. 

“ _ What’s your name _ ?” I state my first name quietly. “ _ You can stay if you give me your mask.”  _ I laugh harshly at that. “ _ Or you could get out and  _ **_die from hypothermia._ ** ” His voice drops again and this time it rumbles out of him like a violent purr. 

“Or I could kill you now!” I snap, my hip aching. My breathing speeds once again behind my mask as my gaze meets the ground.

“ **_Get out_ ** .” His voice is low and angry, and it triggers something in my frazzled sleepy mind. I lunge forward this time, ducking underneath his arm and jumping onto his back once more. 

This time though, I only coil my arms around his neck and squeeze as hard as I can, until he’s clawing at my hands and making little wheezy gasp noises.

I let him go and back into the corner, eyes trailed on the door as I’m made almost hyper-aware of the blood seeping through my bandages. 

“I’m sorry, sorry, didn’t meanta, sorry,” I mutter tiredly, and curl into the corner. He was still on the floor trying to get his breath, but he turned to me with wide eyes. 

I can feel my eyelids grow heavy from lack of sleep and blood loss. 

"Don't let me freeze, didn't mean it," I mumble out as my eyes close. 

The last thing I can remember is warm arms wrapped around me. 

* * *

_ Yelling is the first thing I remember. My entire life, it has been nothing but loud and chaos and anger all tossed around in one small body.  _

_ Of course, I had been told it would go away with age. I was just the troubled child, ADHD and anxiety and anger issues, and once I learned to manage it, the feelings would fade.  _

_ They didn’t.  _

_ I learned how to hide them, how to politely nod no matter how much I wanted to hit someone. To smile while imagining skinning them. To stay quiet and polite and under the radar.  _

_ It was good until I turned 19.  _

_ Somehow, somebody had broken into our house. They had gotten into my room, stood over me with a gun telling me to get on the floor. When the police finally got there, they found the robber's body on the floor, my body spotted with blood from bashing his head in.  _

_ After that, I knew, I  _ knew!  _ Just  _ one  _ murder wasn’t going to be enough for me. So again and again, I murdered, butchering them in every way that popped into my head.  _

_ I was careful. I was cautious. Everything was thought out. The bodies were always taken care of, my hands always clean.  _

_ The anger that had been simmering under my skin for years even seemed to disappear.  _

_ Of course it would always come back, this I knew very well. But those moments of pure peace in between, whether it be while watching t.v. or pulling all the nails off of some poor bastard, they were cherished.  _

_ I don’t know how the police found me.  _

_ I was twenty three, and had been killing for four years. The police knocked on my door with a search warrant, and while I knew there was nothing at home to tie me to the gruesome acts, I was still shaken.  _

_ Staying wasn’t an option anymore. _

_ So, once the police left, promising they would find  _ something  _ to tie me to the crimes, I packed my bags and got in my car.  _

_ I ditched it two towns away, hitching a ride to the next town and renting a car. I stayed under the radar, killing those deemed fit, a lot less careful with it now than previously before.  _

_ My kill count when I finally left the United States at twenty five was two hundred and ninety five, and my kill count only went up from there.  _

_ The cold nights and long days blended together, and if it wasn’t for the occasional phone, I wouldn’t know the date or how long I had been wandering in the woods between victims.  _

_ Hiding in the cities was infinitely harder, especially with the cops looking for me at every turn, so I stayed in the woods.  _

_ One cabin seemed to stick out, most likely the cause of the commotion I caused there. Looking for prey was decently easy, and finding the cabin with the lights on and trucks out front was the best thing that had happened in a few weeks.  _

_ Waiting until they slept to strike was infuriating, making the trek up to the door and inside so much better.  _

_ Six stupid males, half of them drunk.  _

_ The other half, completely sober police officers. I killed as many as I could, vision blurry as one of them pulled out a gun and told me to get on the ground. I lunged forward instead, fueled by adrenaline and fury, and ended up getting shot in the upper left arm.  _

_ None of them got to live, and I made off with one of their trucks and a gun.  _

_ I wasn’t really sure  _ how _ , exactly, I ended up on the plane. But, the flight to wherever I was going was long, and I ended up slaughtering two passengers who found me. Throats slit, they bled out on the floor while I watched their pitiful gurgling with a quiet laugh. _

_ I killed less in the U.K., not knowing the extent of their resources.  _

_ It didn’t stop completely, of course. Here and there, break into a house, kill the poor victims, and leave before the police arrive.  _

_ It went along without a hitch, and nothing seemed to be an issue. Wake up, start walking. Kill, if possible, walk some more, sleep. Repeat.  _

_ It all changed in one night, though.  _

_ I had gotten close to being caught, of course I have. It’s not any fun if you don’t have at least a  _ little  _ thrill. But when I broke into a small two story house, sweeping the entire first floor and finding nobody, I didn’t expect tonight to be the thrill.  _

_ The bitch I had missed had hidden somewhere downstairs, and followed me with a kitchen knife after I had gone upstairs. I found a couple laying in a bed, rings on their fingers and wrinkles on their faces. I slit the poor lady’s throat, waiting for the man to wake up from his wife’s gasping and writhing.  _

_ His eyes opened and widened in fear as the knife my heart held dearly found his Adam's apple to rest upon.  _

_ He almost let out a scream, stopping when I placed a finger to my mask near my mouth.  _

_ “Quiet, dear,” I cooed, knife tracing small patterns on his neck, “Don’t want to wake the wife.” His eyes shot to her, where her neck was split open, revealing muscle, tendons and bone. And so, so much blood. Her eyes were glazed over, life completely drained from them.  _

_ A quiet laugh escaped me as I drove the knife straight down, pressing harder and wiggling it when I hit his spine. Blood poured out of the wound, and whatever he was going to say died right there with him.  _

_ It didn't take long to admire my handiwork, turning to sweep the rest of the upstairs. But, when my foot left the doorway, somebody tackled me, bringing a knife down quickly and slashing me from my middle above my belly button down to my left hip, blade slicing deeper the further it went.  _

_ I let out a shocked cry as I dodged the knife that was brought down again, grabbing the bitches wrists and digging my sharpened nails into her bones, squeezing until she was crying and let go. I pulled it back and plunged it into her chest, humming in satisfaction as it went smoothly between her ribs. She let out an eardrum-rattling scream as the knife further, bringing it up again and down into her throat like I had with her presumably parents. She gurgled a bit before falling silent, and police sirens in the distance caused me to stumble up, down the stairs and out the back door.  _

_ My side was cold, probably from the gash in my clothes, as I stumbled into the darkness of the forest. My blood washed away in the rain, mixing on the ground with the blood of my victims as the inhabitants of the neighborhood block tried to chase me with their police.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brahms is a whole child and nobody can change my mind


	2. Brahms Needs Food More Than I Do

_Warmth_. 

Something so many take for granted, and so many still don’t get. 

I know for a fact that I didn’t often get it, so it is cherished when it comes. Wether it be stealing enough to afford a hotel room, or breaking into a house and hiding there for a night, warmth isn’t something to be looked past quickly. 

Waking up surrounded by warmth is not something to be expected for me. In fact, after so many pointlessly cold nights, the warmth sparks fear deep in my soul. 

My breathing stays as even as it can, and my body remains still as I try to work out where exactly I am. There is an appendage laying over me that feels oddly like an arm, and what feels like fabric is rubbing against my exposed (when did _that_ happen?) stomach. 

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was in a bed.

My eyes flutter open warily as my body is schooled into practiced relaxation. I _was_ in a bed, in a room that seemed familiar. As my eyes drift to the man, who had both an arm and a leg draped over my form, I remember _why_ the room seemed familiar. 

The blanket laying on top of us is made from a soft cotton, the sheets equally soft, if not more so. My mouth drops open slightly as I sigh quietly, sinking further into his embrace. 

The mask that covers my face constantly is still in its rightful place, crowding the edges of my vision and muffling the noise. 

The room is nice, and warm. The far wall has two desks, packed with little nick knacks and tools. What looks to be a rat trap sits on one of the desks, looking incredibly well painted and sanded. 

He makes a little noise behind me, and I freeze up. 

“ _Good morning,_ ” his high pitched grumble comes out as he nuzzles into my hair. 

“Good morning?” I pull back to look at him in confusion. “You let me stay.”

“ _You were bleeding all over the floor,_ ” he huffs out, moving to stand up. My legs feel like jelly, but I scramble to stand anyway, pressing myself flush to the dresser as he walks past. 

“Sorry. Won’t happen again,” I snap, frowning. My gaze wanders down to my torso, my face flushing red as my bare chest greets my eyes, pants hanging low on my hips. The sloppy bandages that had adorned the wound were gone though, replaced with well done, white bandages. “You-” My fingers graze the soft bandage and a gasp escapes me. 

My eyes shoot up to where the man stood, his eyes examining me quizzically. My eyes narrow in suspicion, hands coming up to block my chest from his gaze. 

“What do you want from me?” I demand, mouth pulling back in a quick snarl. 

“ _I wanted you to stop bleeding on the floor_ ,” he states, turning to the sink and ignoring my confused growl. 

“Where is my bag? And my shirt?” I demand angrily, and he points next to the dresser offhandedly, going back to brushing his teeth. 

My anger fades after I find all my clothes washed, dried and folded in my bag, leaving only confusion. 

“Why are you doing this?” Like I had the night before, he ignores my question, opting for walking out of the room through the door next to me instead. I almost call out to him, but think better of it quickly, remembering the other people in the house. 

I slip on my clothes, pulling my bag to me and searching for my knife. 

Everything else is the same in the bag, save for the clean clothes. And the fact that all of the knives in my bag were gone. The gun sat in its pocket, innocent as ever. My breathing sped, anger and confusion increasing at the new realization. 

My entire body is shaking as I stand, eyes trained on the floor. 

_‘Find the man, get my knives, kill him? No no no, can’t kill him.’_ I start to pace, arms wrapped around myself as I walk in small quiet circles. _‘Find the man, get my knives. Yes. Find them, leave?’_ My gaze finds the bed and I sigh. _‘I don’t_ want _to leave quite yet, I suppose.’_ My fingers find the clean jacket wrapped around my torso, gripping the material softly. _‘I can’t stay because he’ll call the police. He probably already has.’_

I stop pacing and leave the room, setting out to find the man as quickly as possible. Wandering through the dimly lit walls is rather boring though, save for the occasional door out. 

My mind drifts to last night.

He should’ve killed me. For all intents and purposes, I should be dead. But, not all people have it in them to take a life. To watch the consciousness drain from someone's eyes as the light fades from them, leaving nothing but a soulless, blood ridden shell. 

A useless play-thing to me, a traumatic and horrifying experience to most. 

I find him, standing still as a statue, pressed up against a wall and watching that godless fucking doll be read to. Or maybe he was listening to the woman's loud, clear voice, as she read something that registered in my head as classic Shakespeare. 

Oh, actually, as I approached quietly, I realized that she was reading ‘ _The Tempest’_ , and was approaching a part that I had memorized while I still lived with my parents. 

“Thou best know'st. What torment I did find thee in; thy groans,” The man almost fell with how quickly he turned to stare at my quiet words, “Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts of ever angry bears: it was a torment to lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax could not again undo: it was mine art, when I arrived and heard thee, that made gape the pine and let thee out.” She continued with a loud, clear voice as my words died on my lips. 

“Where are my weapons?” I hissed stepping closer to him. He stumbled back, knocking the wall lightly, causing the woman to stop reading. I placed my right index finger over the mouth portion of my mask, wagging my left at him in a ‘no’ motion. 

I grabbed his arm and dragged him roughly back to the room, blood feeling like venom in my veins in my anger. 

He put up very little struggle throughout the walk, compliant under my fingers as I dragged him into his room and threw him on his bed. I shut the door with a soft click, tossing my bag on the floor once more and let myself fall back into a crouch, staring at his mask ridden face. 

“I won’t hurt you or kill you,” I start, looking to the ground in thought. “You should’ve killed me, and whether you’re stupid, weak or just too fucking nice, you will live for that.” My eyes snap back up to him as a smile stretches across my face. 

“What’s your name, cutie?” He stayed silent and twiddled his thumbs. I frown at that. He looks like a fucking child being scolded, and I hate it. I want to see his eyes smile, to hear his laugh. “Hey. You don’t gotta be scared.” I stay crouched, looking up into his wary eyes. “You saved my life, I won’t hurt ya, or yell at you. Nothing like that. I just want to know your name.” 

“ _Brahms,_ ” He informed me, voice a high pitched whisper. 

“Well, Brahms, thank you very much. It’s… _nice…_ to know that some people in this world are good.” 

“I’m not good,” he snarled in a deeper voice, finally snapping at me. “I’m a monster!” His hands flew up to cover his mask, but I caught them just short. 

“Oh dear…” I put his hands down on his lap and sat on the bed next to him, pulling him into a hug. “You have no idea what the world is like, do you?” My hands ran through his greasy hair and pulled through the knots. 

He relaxed against my chest fairly quickly, letting out a long sigh as he let his entire weight rest on me. 

“Mmm. Touch starved, are we?” I let my other hand trace patterns on his back lazily. 

“ _Feels nice,_ ” he mumbles out. I sit like that with him until he goes limp in my hold, breathing getting deeper. 

I sighed quietly as I put him on his bed completely, tucking the blanket around him lightly. I look around and take off my shoes to make even less noise before going to explore the room. So many books, all worn, line the room with small plants and more trinkets. I pick up a worn copy of Bambi before settling myself in one of the chairs at the desk. 

* * *

After about an hour, he started to stir. Brahms let out a sleep groan as he reached to the side table for his mask, only to realize that he fell asleep with it on. 

I watched confusion flicker in his tired eyes with a smile. 

“Sleep well?” He jumped when the soft words left my mouth. He looked at me like he couldn’t quite believe I was real and backed up against the wall. “Sorry I stuck around.” I stood and stretched, arms high above my head as my sweatshirt rode up. 

“ _Why’d you stay?_ ” I chuckled at his confusion. 

“Figured it’d be mean to ditch you after _just_ getting here.” His stomach growled loudly, and he seemed to curl in on himself in embarrassment. 

“ _Sorry.”_ My head tilted to the side at the bright red flush that seemed to touch his ears, and I shook my head. 

“You need to eat more. You’re… malnourished. Too skinny,” I mumbled, pulling out crackers, beef jerky and a can of peaches. I set them on the bed in front of him, where he had shifted to be sitting cross legged while looking at me with a confusion I could equal with him. 

I pulled out a fork and held it to him. 

“ _Are you going to eat?”_ My stomach growled at that, making me nod and pull out a small can of peas. 

“Eat up, pretty boy.” Pulling back the lid quickly, the peas were tossed down my throat in a mix of green water and mush that made me grimace. He picked at the crackers slowly, looking up to meet my staring gaze. 

“ _What?”_

“Do you only talk like that?” I popped the question quickly. “Was it trauma? I could understand that, actually. Forget I asked.” I dug in my bag for my small notebook and pen. 

“ _Mommy and Daddy like it better,_ ” He replies sadly, still picking at the same cracker. “ _They don’t want me to be big.”_ I growl at that, angrily clicking my pen. 

“Your Mommy and Daddy sound like fucking assholes,” I state plainly. “You _obviously_ are not a boy. They shouldn’t take it out on you.” I slammed the pen down in the notebook, scribbling words quickly. A brief history of last night, and the strange encounters since then. 

“ _Do you…_ ” he clears his throat quietly. “Do you want me to talk like this?” His voice drops so suddenly that I pause. 

“Is it more comfortable?” He nods hesitantly. “Then yes. If your parents have an _issue_ , then I can-” I freeze at his frightened eyes, “Talk to them. But I won’t.” My eyes graze the floor once again. 

“Are you going to leave?” His voice sounds sad, and my chest feels unusually tight. 

“Obviously. You don’t want me here, remember? I came to grab my knives and leave.” My face twists in anger as I spit out the bitter words. 

“Stay…” my gaze snaps up in surprise, eyebrows shooting up. A smirk spreads across my face as a chuckle escapes my chest. 

“Oh my.” I shake my head, bringing a hand up and under my mask to rub at my eye. “Isn’t this a twist?” I sigh, looking at the man. “How long?” 

“Forever,” his possessive voice rings through the quiet room. 

“Wow. Okay. Well, I suppose that’ll change once you get to know me. For now though, eat your crackers, and I’ll… stay here.” My gaze traces the ground awkwardly, my body tense as I try to think of how to continue the conversation. 

“What were you reading?” 

“...Bambi.” 

“Read it to me,” he declared. 

I nodded softly, picking up the neglected book and continued to read softly. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wish i could puke up the right words to explain how bad i want to cuddle this poor wall boy


	3. Im Bad At Writing Gore, But Fantastic At Creating Gorey Nightmares In My Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys be careful there's blood

It was an easy life to be lulled into, living with Brahms. Crawling through the walls with him, silent as ever, watching the doll and his parents. Going back to his room to read and play and _talk_. 

It had been so long since I talked to anyone besides the occasional phone call to my parents that I forgot how nice it was. How absolutely comforting it is to sit with someone _alive._

And Brahms… 

Brahms was a _child_ . He acted like one, had a temperament like one, and tended to talk like one. He threw awful tantrums and demanded my attention _constantly_ , no matter what I was doing. 

Of course, it was easy to put a stop to it with a simple look and low growl. He got defensive sometimes, but usually he backed off when I did so. 

He might be afraid of me, which wouldn’t be such a stretch after seeing the bruising on his neck fade after a few days. 

His parents were more infuriating than anybody I had ever met, but they remained oblivious to my presence in the manor. It was easy to see that they feared him. It was _angering,_ and it made my skin crawl, but I left them alone. If his parents didn’t care about my Brahms, I’d put in the effort instead. 

He was afraid, and angry, he threw tantrums like a goddamn _toddler_ , and I wouldn’t give him up for the world. He was something precious- something to be _protected._ When I would point this out, his face would flush so bright I could see it on the top of his ears and on his neck. He’d mutter something about being a monster that’d cause me to hug him tight once more, and almost every time we ended up passing out. 

He was so touch starved it was almost sad, and learning that he had been hidden in the walls for almost twenty years broke my heart. After that, he was touching me constantly, whether it be hand holding or with him draped over my lap and chest as we read together, I made sure he was never alone. 

Of course, on occasions, he’d ask for some time alone, and I’d leave to wander the walls while he did whatever he wanted to in his room. Maybe showering? There was a shower I used a few times, Brahms making himself scarce as I stripped myself. 

It was one of these times, when he wanted to be alone, that I found out. About five weeks into my stay.

It was near bedtime, and his _disgusting_ parents sat with the doll at his bed. 

“Now, Brahms, I know that you didn’t like the last Nanny,” his mom started, “but the new girl coming has lots of potential. I would really like you to give her a chance,” she stated, voice commanding. “Do you understand, Brahms?” The few conversations I had watched between Brahms and his parents led me to knock once for yes. 

“Good.” She leaned down and kissed the doll’s forehead, smiling sadly. “Goodnight, Brahms.” She stood, letting the man do the same. 

They had left the room, leaving me with surprise and anger. That day was almost two days ago, and nothing was said to Brahms. 

When the woman arrived, claiming to be ‘Victoria’, Brahms was still sleeping. I had slowly started getting him to sleep in later, for my sake and his, the grumpy little fucker. I rushed back to the room, surprising Brahms with my sudden arrival. 

The plan set in my head replayed a few times before I spoke. 

“Brahmsy? I’ve got a project for you.” 

He was quick to agree to making what I wanted, and when I told him he could _not_ leave the room, I told him it was because I was feeling very angry today for some reason. I told him it was because I had been hurting people for so long, and just stopping made me need some space so I didn’t hurt him. 

My heart ached at the blatant lie, but he agreed. He wouldn’t leave the room, no matter what he heard, not even for bedtime.

My lips pressed against the cool porcelain forehead before I wished him good luck with the painting and left to watch the woman. 

She was wearing bland colors, bland clothing. Her face was schooled into perfection, slight wrinkles causing it to look like she frowned often. I put her in her late thirties, my heart beating heavy in my chest. 

She approached the doll with a frown and suspicious eyes before greeting Brahms’s doll lightly. Her voice was irritating. Scratchy and accented, it sounded cold and annoyed. Lacking any passion. 

Mrs. Heelshire walked her through Brahms’s day, and I followed silently. 

It’s easy to hate someone you don’t know. I hated this stupid woman, who was probably only looking for a job, more than I thought I would. 

I went and put Brahms to bed, explaining that I needed a bit longer alone before I tucked him in and read him a book. I placed a kiss on his masked cheek, turning and leaving with a quiet ‘goodnight’, flicking off the lights as I went. 

Mrs. Heelshire sat at the bed with Brahms and Mr. Heelshire. They had just finished prayer, and Victoria stood by the door, looking wary. 

“We’d like to have a moment with our son, please,” Mr. Heelshire asked lightly, looking to the ~~goddamn irritating~~ polite lady. She nodded, leaving and closing the door behind her. 

“Do you like her, Brahms?” I banged my fist on the wall two times, harsh and loud. They both flinched before the lady sighed. 

“Are you sure? She is polite, and good for bearing children-” Both of my fists met the wall violently as it shook, sending a wave of dust down upon me. “Brahms, stop it!” She hissed between clenched teeth. 

“She’ll be gone by noon,” Mr. Heelshire promised solemnly. I let out one soft knock, a small thank you to the man. 

“Goodnight Brahms,” his mother's icy voice cut through the air. She kissed his forehead lightly before leaving. His father stood, kissing Brahms’s cheek lightly. 

“I didn’t like her much either, if it’s any consolation,” He states. “Goodnight, Brahms.” I let my forehead fall to the wall as he leaves, grateful for the little he did. 

But, she would be gone before noon. I wanted her gone _now._ My chest felt like a wildfire as I inhaled sharply.

My feet were light and quiet, a sharp juxtaposition to the war in my head. All that was coursing through my veins was acid as I set out looking for her room, blade twisting in my hand. 

My thoughts were a quick chant of _‘kill kill kill’_ as I finally laid my eyes upon her sleeping figure. She came to take Brahms, to hurt him, to bear _children-_

And with that last thought, I was creeping into her room and standing above her bed. I tapped the side of her face lightly, waking her from her sleep. 

She was taking too long, so I gripped her jaw in my left hand harshly. 

Her eyes shot open at the sudden pain, surprise and fear flashing on her face before she let out a splitting scream. I brought the knife down in pure fury, taking pleasure in her sobbing wails as her chest opened, blood spewing out as I made sure to drag it down every single rib on her right side as it trailed down. I pushed the blade through her throat, causing more blood to spill as I jerked back. 

I pulled the knife from her neck, causing more blood to spray across my mask, retreating to the closet and through the small door. I latched it behind me as the Heelshires footsteps split through the heavy silence in the manor. 

I almost laughed as Mrs. Heelshire let out a horrified scream at the scene, turning quickly. Mr. Heelshire turned and ran, a hand over his mouth.   
A happiness and comfort burst through my chest as a pressure I didn’t realize was there was finally released. The acid in my veins simmered down, the coals in my chest cooling. I was happy, and calm. 

So of course Brahms had to walk up, eyes wide in terror at my blood-soaked clothes. He looked through a hole in the wall to see the mangled corpse, breathing speeding. 

Before I could react, my hand was on his jaw firmly, turning him to me. 

“Don’t fucking look at what I did. Go back to your fucking room, and go back to sleep, Brahmsy. **_Now_ **.” He didn’t wait to be told twice, turning and scurrying off before I could say much else. 

As Mr. Heelshire walked back into the room, I pounded my fists on the wall twice- _no._ I made a point of making my footsteps heavy and loud as I walked back to Brahms’s room, tearing off my bloody shirt as I entered. 

I threw the contents of my bag on the floor, growling and chuckling near silently as I dug for a shirt. 

I jumped when Brahms wrapped his arms around me, pulling me to him. 

“Brahms? You’re gonna get blood-” He sniffled behind his mask before letting out a quiet sob into my neck. “Oh. Oh no, Princey,” I cooed, holding him close “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

“ _I thought you were hurt!”_ His childish voice sobs as he squeezes me. I let out a sigh and a chuckle, holding him close. 

“I’m okay. She didn’t even touch me.” He pulled back to look at me, eyes rimmed with red. 

“ _Then why?”_ His voice was once again a mix of his two, a broken tone. 

“She wanted to take you from me. Your parents got her for you to-” I stopped myself, getting angry again. “I needed her dead.” 

He nods against my chest as more sobs wreck his body. 

“You wouldn’t leave me, would you Brahmsy?” He shakes his head. “Good. You’re my good little boy. Shhh…” he lets out more broken sobs as I pick the both of us up, going to the bed. 

“Sit. I’m going to change before it gets dry.” Tossing off the remaining clothes, I dug through the pile on the floor. I slipped on a very large shirt I had stolen from Brahms, and a pair of boxers. 

Petting his hair as he fell asleep, still sniffling, was the nicest thing that happened all night. 

Even knowing I had left the elderly couple to clean up the mess.


	4. I Casually Wear Masks Because They're Comfortable

“Brahms, listen to me-”

“Get out.” 

“Brahms-!”  
_“Out!”_ He screamed, his entire demeanor changing to look frightening. _“Get out of my room, get out of my house- get out of my fucking_ ** _life_** _!”_ The regret that bloomed from him using the curse that I had taught him was quickly drowned out by hurt. 

Hurt and anger. If he wanted me gone, I would be gone. I went to the drawer that he had given me, ripping out the bag I hadn’t needed and shoving clothes in. 

“Well Brahms,” I grit out, shoving the rest of my half-folded t-shirts in, “if that’s what you want.” I put my kitchen knives in, followed by the small, painted, hand-crafted wooden bird Brahms had made me. Closing the bag and slipping it on top of my jacket, I turned and left the room down the ladder. 

_ “Good fucking riddance! And don’t come back! Stupid fucking _ - _ ”  _ he was still going, but my quick motions got enough distance between us fast enough that I couldn’t hear his shouting. 

A brief thought crosses my mind-  _ good thing the parents weren’t home.  _ Then again, that is what had started this mess. 

Diana and Jim had left for the day, leaving a young girl in charge of Brahms's doll. She, of course, ignored the rules for exploring. When Brahms got upset with her and banged on the walls, she fled- leaving the doll laying in the middle of the hallway in front of the open door. 

It didn’t matter to him that we were  _ friends _ . It didn’t matter that I was much more than some fucking  _ nanny _ , he told me-  _ ordered me _ to take care of the doll. 

I said no. 

He had thrown a tantrum, like he tended to do. He had said something about me  _ owing  _ it to him. He didn’t care that I was a fugitive, and that we could just go back to the room for the day and stay there  _ together _ . 

He only cared that I took care of the doll. And I said no. 

The lock had been put back on the door, it seemed, so I slipped out of the walls and out to the front door, barreling through. The sun splashed on my face as the wind barreled into me, an almost orgasmic feeling in itself. I took a few deep breaths and closed my eyes, bathing in the feeling. 

How long had I been here? 3 or 4 months now, probably. Could I leave? I was never meant to stay. 

_ But,  _ I thought grimly,  _ I was no longer welcome.  _

My feet took off before my mind could register the change, bolting down the stairs as my lungs burned from lack of activity. The ground was damp beneath my feet causing droplets of water to spray up the back of my heels from the force of my motions. 

I ran until my legs and lungs couldn’t bear it any longer, collapsing onto the forest floor in a pitiful motion. I let out an angry roar, fury and pain coming out in one swift motion. 

There I lay, on the forest floor, glaring a hole in a tree. I no longer had anywhere to go, nothing to do. Killing almost seemed… a boring idea. 

While the dripping blood seemed ideal, the chemicals the best type of stress relief, I doubted I could. And, oh boy, wasn't  _ that _ a first? 

In the early days of my rampage, it wasn't rare for me to be scared to kill for fear of prison. To be scared of such things isn't uncommon. But this? This all consuming numbness based from the stupid man named Brahms? This is new.

My breathing calms as it dawns on me what to do, what I’ve  _ done  _ every time I’m unsure of what to do. 

I pull out the small phone from the very front pocket of my backpack. It turns on with a small noise of recognition as I thank the gods that I had recently charged it. I hit one on the speed dial and brought the small thing up to my ear. It hit the edge of my mask, causing me to growl lowly as it rang.

_ “Hello?”  _

“Hey dad.” 

My father was a role model in my life. My anchor when things were overwhelming me, what held me home through my killing rampage. 

It helped when I found out  _ he  _ had been a serial killer with mom before I had been born. His small tips and tricks here and there probably saved me a lifetime in prison, honestly. 

_ “I was wondering when you’d call. I was getting worried that you had finally froze or something,”  _ he laughed lightly. 

“Nah. I uh, found a good home. Somewhere to stay. But…” 

_ "You fucked it up?”  _ I barked out a laugh at his harsh words.

“Nicely put, maestro.” He sighs. 

_ “So. Did you kill somebody you didn’t mean to? Or is it just a ‘you need Dad's advice’ type thing?”  _

“I got in a fight with somebody really important to me. They told me to leave, so I did. And now I feel…” 

_ “Wrong.”  _ My eyelids fall, suddenly too heavy to stay open. 

“Yeah.” I sink further into the ground. “What do I do? He doesn’t want me there.” 

_ “Is he important, kiddo?”  _

“Very.” Pictures of Brahms flash behind my closed eyelids, his eyes turned up in a smile behind his mask. 

_ “Then fight for him. Didn’t I teach you better than to give up?”  _ I let out yet another airy laugh. 

“Yeah, yeah. I just don’t know…” 

_ “Get over it, kid. Take a walk, give yourselves some time to cool down, go back and talk it out. Worst comes to worse, you can just kidnap the boy. Okay?”  _

“Alright. Thanks, dad.” My mom yells something in the background, causing my dad to inhale sharply. 

_ “We gotta go, kiddo. Your mom and I are kind of in the same position as you, legality wise. Your siblings are still going cross country right now, so we might head to visit them. They apparently shacked up in some town called Ambrose?”  _

“Oh. How’d you-” distant sirens echo through the woods, causing a spike of panic to go through me. 

_ “Hun? What is it?”  _

“Sirens, dad. Police sirens. I have to go.” 

_ “Alright. Don’t get caught, and fucking call, you got it?”  _ Three gunshots echo from his side of the phone.  _ “Buh bye, sweetheart.”  _ He ended the call, prompting me to shut off the phone and stuff it back in the bag. I race towards the direction of the sirens, on the chance that they are headed towards town. 

The road was one I recognized, it led from the town towards the Heelshire mansion. The numerous cop cars passed me, none the wiser to my presence. My stomach sank. Logically, they could be going anywhere. But- __

_ What if Brahms was hurt? What if Brahms was  _ **_found?_ **

My feet seemed particularly in control today, taking off back towards the place I had fled from. The trip took longer. The ground took too long to pass underneath my feet, fear like a parasite twisting in my body and mind. 

Of course, by the time I got close I could see the lights.  _ Blue-red, blue-red.  _

An ambulance, half a dozen cop cars and two or three other cars all sat out front. 

I sat on the treeline, breathing heavy and panicked behind my mask. Is Brahms okay? Was he found?  _ What if, what if, what if-  _

And then they brought out a body. Shrouded in white and unmoving, it still seemed too short to be Brahms. My chest feels heavy. 

A well of fear and dread swirl inside my mind as they bring out two more bodies, loading them all into separate vehicles. 

Waiting was no longer an option. I walked around the back of the house, breaking in not unlike I had the first night. The house was livelier than ever, the walls deader than ever before. There were people in all of the front rooms- police officers and medics, mostly. A coroner standing over another body. All together, five dead people. 

None of them seemed to be Brahms. 

The walls are crowded and stuffy today, a thick gloom settling over the familiar passages. The door to Brahms's room is smeared with blood, causing my breath to leave me in a frightened puff.

I enter with shaky legs, heart somewhere low in my stomach. 

"Brahms?" My eyes dart around the room, finally settling on his slouched and unmoving figure over the desk. "Oh gods, Brahms?!?" I am by his side immediately, my hands hovering over him, unsure of where to place them on his blood spattered body. 

His favorite shirt- a soft blue long sleeve shirt that he had stolen from me- was stained a filthy red. The type of red I would rejoice in, if this was anybody else. Anybody but  _ Brahms.  _

His chest heaved up in a soft inhale as he turned to look at me. 

_ “You…”  _ he breathes in and out a few times, coughing slightly,  _ “came back.”  _ I sit him up lightly, wincing as he cries out lightly. 

I can see no visible wounds on him besides a small cut on his neck and some bruises on his fists, causing me to whimper. 

“Where are you hurt, princey? Let me help.” His hand comes up shakily and grabs my right hand, guiding it under his shirt and to the side of his torso carefully. A decently large gash came down from above his belly button, ending right above the right side of his Adonis belt. 

It looked almost identical to the scar I had on my torso, only a bit more vertical. It wasn’t nearly as deep though, causing me to let out a relieved sigh. 

“C’mon, princey, let’s get to the bed.” I helped him stand, rubbing his back as he whimpered and cried out from pain. I set his head on the pillow, bringing his legs up and lifting his shirt. 

_ “(Y/N)?”  _ He sniffled, bringing a hand up to rub at his eye over his mask, which is funny in its own way.  _ “Am I going to- to die?”  _ He cried out so suddenly that I actually laughed. 

“Of course not, Brahms. I wouldn’t let you quite yet.” I pull my bandaging supplies out of my bag, cleaning the wound quickly. He lets out small whimpers and quiet cries the whole time, on the verge of writhing. 

I gently sat him up to bandage him, doing it tight and neat. I strip him of the shirt next, pulling off his blood stained pants as well. He let out a surprised cry at that, almost jerking back from me. 

“It’s all right, Brahms. Just relax.” I guided him to lay down once more, walking to the small sink and grabbing a washcloth to wipe him down with. Once he was decently clean and dry, the blankets were pulled over him and tucked in neatly. 

I hesitate before reaching for his mask, reaching forward. His hand snaps up, gripping my wrist. 

“Brahms, I can see blood through your eye holes. Let me clean it, and you can have it back.” 

“No.” He pushes my hand back towards me, not expecting an argument. 

“Brahms. Your face can’t be that bad. I won’t even look, alright?” My tone turns negotiative. He shakes his head, eyes following me silently. 

I let out a shaky sigh before reaching towards my own mask, pulling it up slowly as my eyes stay as locked on Brahms's surprised ones as they can. 

His eyes portray shock and pity at my face- large scarred gashes coming from above my left eyebrow and left cheekbone to meet on my nose and travel down to the left side of my jaw. I knew they looked terrible and painful- they were when I got them. 

“I’m going to take off your mask now, Brahms.” He doesn’t have time to respond before I’m reaching forward and stripping him of the same comfort blanket I took from myself. 

His face was terribly burnt and scarred, his face portraying an expression of hurt and fear. 

I don’t react, simply reaching forward and wiping down his face gently. Silence settles over us as I clean him, finishing quickly and putting the bloody washcloth in the sink. I strip myself of my sweatshirt and jacket before laying in bed with him carefully, trying my best to ignore his still shocked look. 

“You’re very handsome, Brahms. Did you know that?” My eyes flick up to his slowly, reveling in his unsure gaze. 

“You’re hurt.” I scoff lightly. My eyes roll as I go to turn over. “You split your lip,” he elaborates, finger coming up to prod lightly at the lip I had bitten bloody. 

“You’re hurt as well.” I laugh lightly at my remark, eyes slowly getting heavy. 

“What happened?” My smile drops. 

“Robber. You?”   
“Fire when I was little.” I nod, leaning into him. He hugs me lightly, hyper aware of his wound. 

We fall asleep wrapped in each other, masks finally coming off for the first time. 


	5. Parents Will Atone For Their Sins, One Way Or Another.

“(Y/N)-” 

“Don’t leave.” Brahms tried to pull out of my grasp to no avail. 

_“Let go-!”_

“You can’t leave me too!” I looked him in the eye as I kept a firm grasp on his wrist. “I will die before I let you leave me, too.” He was shaking as I gripped him tighter. 

_“Let me go!”_ He screamed, finally lashing out and hitting me. I hear my mask hit the floor before I can recognize its absence, looking at Brahms quickly. 

“I will not let you leave me, princey.” I walked to the door, flinching as he grabbed my shoulder.

“You can’t hurt them-!” His voice was his own deep pitch as he got more scared. I turned to him, letting him grip me tighter. 

“Do you know what I did before I came here, Brahms?” I stepped towards him as he released me and stumbled back. “You know. You _knew._ Your parents will be sleeping before long, I need to go get rid of them, Brahms.” I place my hand on his mask slowly. “Do you trust me, Brahms?” 

“Of course,” he answers without hesitation. His eyes fall closed as he leans into my hand.

“Do you want me gone?” His eyes shoot open as he vigorously shakes his head at that. 

“No! No, you-” He backed up a bit as my hands fell.

“They want me gone.” My voice is cold and my expression is hurt. 

“But they’re-!” He grips my hands in a desperate motion. 

“They want me dead.” Anger starts to bubble up, outweighing my pain at seeing him so hysterical.

“Please, don’t make me ch-” 

“They wanted you dead.” He freezes at that, eyes wide and tears forming. “You know it, don’t you? They wished you were dead, tried to _kill you_.” The tears fell as he started shaking. “Brahms, please,” I murmur, placing a hand on his mask. “Please, let me make this right.” 

He was shaking like a leaf in an autumn breeze, quiet sobs coming from his mouth. 

_“Not here. Please, not yet,”_ he begged me. I sigh heavily, pulling him down for a hug. 

“The girl will be arriving tomorrow, Brahms. Either I take care of them, or...” I sigh, leaning up against him further as pleasant anticipation rolls through me, “or I leave, little princey. Will you let me do what must be done?” He sobs louder at that, nodding against me. 

_“Please don’t leave,”_ he gasps out. 

“I won’t, Princey. I won’t ever leave.” I kiss the top of his head lightly. “Let’s go to bed.” He nods, still sniffling as he lets me remove his clothes, leaving him in boxers and a tank top. I do the same before relieving him of his mask. “I will never get tired of telling you how handsome you are,” I tell him truthfully before kissing his cheek. 

He sighs as he lays down, pulling me to him. 

“Sleep in tomorrow, please? I’ll take care of it for you.” He nods numbly, silent sobs shaking his figure. 

A smile spreads across my features slowly, glancing down at Brahms. The promise of _bloodshed_ causes my heart to pump faster, a glorious feeling in light of their intentions. Oh, how nice it would feel to make them pay for the years of suffering they caused. 

I let my eyes fall shut as I imagine them, guilty faces twisted into horrifying portrayals of death and gore, teeth ripped out one by one for their lies and skin burned slowly like they did to Brahms. 

Eventually his small whimpers and occasional sobs subside, a soft snore coming out of his mouth every once in a while. I grin widely as I stroke his hair, shaking in pure exhilaration. 

I love Brahms, I really do. I love reading with him, playing with him, existing with him like we’re a happy couple and not two killers hiding in the walls. I love Malcolm, his occasional visits to deliver exactly what I need. How easy it is to slip a list onto the table and take what we need. 

I love my life here, but I miss my life before. Running with no real destination, killing and answering to nobody. 

I slowly get up, giving Brahms my pillow in place of myself. I kiss his forehead lightly, praying that I’d be able to get him to forgive me. 

I open up my drawer, taking out my clothes and holsters that I had missed so much. First is my red t-shirt, following Deadpool’s rules. It’s a mangled thing, sewn back together so many times it was practically just thread holding together a shredded shirt. 

On top of that is a black jacket, pockets half-full with materials good for torture. I pat my chest to make sure my pliers are still there. 

A clean pair of boxers is followed by my favorite and only pair of cargo pants, black and sturdy. I put matches followed by a compass in one pocket while stuffing another full of zip ties, grinning like a madman. 

My knife holster is comfortably secured around my waist and thigh, my favorite trusty knife finding home once again. I stand and shove two more smaller knives in my pockets, duct tape in the largest pocket of my jacket. I slip my boots on with little resistance, another knife in both of them as I chuckle quietly at my over-preparation for two old, weak bastards. 

Shaking fingers trail over my mask, my favorite companion over the years. Slipping it on is like going home, sighing in delight at my readiness for the kill. I give Brahms one last glance and a silent apology before making my way out of the walls. 

I come out in the living room, staring at the remains of a small fire with a sick sense of desire. 

They would burn for what they’d done. I grab the nearest chair, a wooden thing that looks uncomfortable but would be suitable for what I desire. I drag it upstairs quietly, entering the parent’s room with no more than a squeak of the door. 

I set down the chair and close the door, flipping on the lights and sitting down. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire, your attention please.” it takes them a few moments to process the lights, even more time to process my presence in the room. "Good." I unsheathe my blade, toying with it idly. 

They both sit up, staring at my mask in terror. I clean under my nails with the dull blade, thinking over my words. 

“Do you know who I am?” They both nod their heads, gripping each other in horror. “Good. That will make this much easier. My name is (Y/n), Mister and Misses Heelshire. Do you know why I’m here?” Neither answer as tears fall from Mrs. Heelshire’s eyes. “This isn’t rhetorical. I expect an answer.” 

“I assume you’re here to kill us,” Mister Heelshire answered, voice wavering. I nod and point the knife at him. 

“You assume correctly. Do either of you wish to guess why I would desire that?” I tilt my head at them. “Anyone?” 

“Because you’re _sick_ ,” Misses spits. I stand slowly, walking to her side of the bed- the right side of the bed- and sit on the end. 

“Your self preservation skills aren’t what they used to be, Diane. Sick as I may be, it isn’t very smart to insult the person who craves your flesh, is it?” I place my empty hand on her leg, smiling as she flinches heavily. “Would you like to guess again?” 

“You enjoy it,” Jim mutters, squeezing Diane’s hand. I smile at him, sighing and standing. 

“Close. That is why I kill others, Jim. Good guess.” I sit back in the chair. “I am going to slowly torture and murder both of you. Not because I’ll enjoy it, I will enjoy it but this is completely your own fault.” I lean back, putting my right calf on my left knee. I inhale, choosing my words carefully. 

“Do you know what it is like to burn?” The knife slowly twists in my hand. “You better pray the smoke kills you. Human flesh isn’t flammable so you cook. First your flesh starts to peel away and your blood gets hotter. The heat sometimes kills you, fatal heat stroke in a matter of minutes. In some cases, the heat causes your skin to shrink enough that your own neck suffocates you. In other cases, the smoke causes your throat to swell enough that you suffocate. You’ll feel every excruciating second until your nerves burn enough you don’t feel anything.” They both looked ready to be sick. “It is one of the most painful and slow ways to die, Mr and Mrs Heelshire.” 

I stood, keeping my face down and my voice low. 

“And you tried to execute your eight year son with such a method.” Diane was sobbing, holding a hand over her mouth. “Your son begged me to spare your lives, but I love him more than he can ever know, so I have to kill you.” I grab the chair, setting it by the man’s side of the bed as I holster my knife.

“Sit down.” He shudders before moving the covers, sitting down in the chair. 

“Jim, Jim, Jim.” I zip tip his hands and ankles to the chair before going over them with duct tape. “You treated Brahms as if he was more of a person than a doll. That does not forgive your sins, but it spares you a gruesome fate.” I move him to the other side of the room, placing a hand on the side of his face before spreading duct tape over his mouth. 

I stand, turning to the silently sobbing woman.

“Walk with me, Diane.” I hold out a hand for her, grinning as she takes it and stands. I loop an arm around her shoulder, walking her towards the door. 

“Why?” She sobs as I lead her down the stairs. I hum in thought, patting her shoulder. 

“‘Because I enjoy playing judge, jury and executioner’ is what I would say if you were anyone else.” I smile at her, walking her out the front door into the cool night air. “But the real reason I am bringing you outside tonight, Diane, is because I do not want to clean up your disgusting blood.” She lets out a horrified noise, sobbing but not struggling. 

We don’t talk as I walk her to the woods, reaching a spot I deemed fit before sitting her down. She sits slowly, accepting her fate. 

“It’s my fault,” she told me quietly as I taped her to the tree and zip tied her wrists together. 

“Yes, it is.” My short answer is greeted by a new wave of quiet sobs, making me smile. 

“I’m so sorry,” she cried, eyes meeting mine despite the mask and the dark. I pulled out my knife, placing it against her horrified face.

“Apologies mean nothing. You cannot-” a slow and light slice down her face, “ _heal_ with apologies. I can sit and apologize until I die and it will not heal your wounds. It will not,” I dug my fingers into the wound, “ _heal_ your scars.” she did not scream, holding onto her dignity. 

I stood, holstering my knife. 

“Stay put, Diane, like a good girl. I will return shortly.” I turned and walked back towards the house, jogging once I was sure she couldn’t see me anymore. The tool shed was a messy place full of trinkets and tools, everything from birdhouses to garden shears. I grab a shovel and plastic tarp, hauling them back to the woman. 

“Would you like to be buried or cremated?” I turn to her shaking form as I lean on the shovel. She sobs in horror at the second option, making me grin. “Cremation it is.” I turn, digging a hole deep and wide enough for both of the parents, soaking up her pleas with a grin. 

As I set down the shovel, I make a show of putting dry leaves and sticks across the bottom, humming happily. 

I crouched in front of her when the preparations were ready, cutting her ties. 

I was so convinced she wouldn’t fight back that it shocked me when she kicked me back, taking my knife and standing in a defensive position as I fell into the hole I had made. I blinked a few times, processing what had happened before standing. 

My pocket knife in my right hand immediately, I lunged at the woman with a sneer, burying the short blade in her stomach as I ripped mine from her. Throwing the pocket knife aside, I take my blade in both of my hands, bringing it down into her stomach again, aiming lower so as to not hit her lungs. I do this four times, each time her scream quieter than the last. 

When I rip the knife back and grab her by her hair, she tries to beg again. 

“Please, just-” I bring her face to my knee before throwing her in the pit and hopping down after her. 

“Today I offer one Diane Heelshire to the gods,” I murmur, tracing the knife down her neck. “May she forever suffer in hell,” I snarl, slicing open her throat. My hands were drenched in thick, hot blood as I stood, knife hanging loosely from my hand as her gurgles resided. 

Wiping a hand across my mask, I made my way back to the house quickly. I took the steps two at a time to get back to Jim, to look at his horrified face once more. I cut his bindings, helping him up as his eyes locked on the blood adorning my faux face. 

“Now, Jim, is your opportunity to atone for your sins,” I murmured, holding his hands. “Will you take it?”

* * *

I dump the last of the dirt on top of their corpses, moving branches and rocks over them in a sort of shrine. 

“Here lie Diane and Jim Heelshire, who never deserved as much as a good burial,” I joked to myself. The sun was just breaching the horizon, a pleasant air of finality around the woods. 

I walk back to the house, smiling like a loon. My smile dims slightly as I think of Brahms, still in bed, alone. How upset he would be when he learned of my sins. 

Perhaps he would punish me for them as I had his parents. 

With a small sigh, I enter the house, trailing up to Brahms’s room. I grab my nicest change of clothes, smiling at the peacefully sleeping Brahms before going to the bathroom downstairs. 

I start the shower, adjusting the temperature so I don't have to mess with it when I'm ready. The water is cold, not freezing but not warm either. Slowly, I set my mask in the sink, the red-brown of flaking blood making me smile. 

My eyes flick up, catching themselves in the mirror. My face was clean and scarred as I remembered it always being, a time before my scarring was another life. Another life lived by a pushover, a child. 

That was a long time ago. A life I couldn’t- _wouldn’t_ return to. 

I turn from the mirror, taking off my blood caked clothes in the same order I put them on. They were thrown hazardously in a pile on the floor, my knife and holster set carefully on the counter with the discarded mask. 

A heavy yawn left me, the adrenaline and excitement of the day wearing down as I stepped into the shower. 

The water ran red, pretty little tendrils infecting the clean water much like I had done to so many. Weaving my own horror stories, kill after kill, only ever stopping for- 

Brahms. 

I could work with the plan. For Brahms. 

I stop messing around, grabbing a loofa and scrubbing myself down with it to get the worst of the blood off. I pour the first soap I find- a green and blue container labeled ‘body wash’- all over the loofa, scrubbing at my dry and uncared for skin. I rinse off the suds, frowning at the sheer amount of red that was still in it.

I continue with that cycle- scrub, rinse, repeat- until my skin was red hot under my touch, even despite the cold. 

The last thing I wash is my hair, a matted mess of curls that was probably host to a rat or three. 

I stand under the water, scrubbing as best as I can before rinsing off. 

I get out, grabbing a towel from under the sink and drying myself off quickly. I reach into the drawer, pulling out a comb and scissors. 

"Don't fuck it up," I growl at myself. I comb out the snarls violently and quickly, though it takes nearly ten minutes to get all of the knots out. 

I take a hair tie and put the top section of my hair in a ponytail, combing through the rest. I take the scissors and comb, cutting my hair to about the same length as the comb all across. 

I cut the top of my hair evenly- or as evenly as I can- humming in satisfaction when my hair looks semi even. I slip on the clean clothes- a black button up and blue jeans with a pair of matching white socks- the single pair of matching socks I have left. 

I look in the mirror, fixing the collar of the shirt before nodding. 

I journey to the kitchen, grabbing a trash bag to throw my clothes in and going back to the bathroom. The clothes are handled carefully so as to not get blood on myself, tying off the bag and sighing. 

I throw the bag in the nearest entrance to the walls. 

I go back to the bathroom, staring at my mask in the sink. 

Can I face the woman without it? I have to. For Brahms. I grab my mask, letting it hang loosely in my hand as I grab my knife and holster. They are left with the bag in the walls, making me realize how naked I feel without them. 

"The woman will be arriving at noon." I sigh, walking upstairs to the parents bedroom. I make a stop to a closet, grabbing clean sheets. I clean up the zip ties and duct tape before completely stripping the bed, throwing the sheets outside the door to deal with later. I made the bed with the clean sheets, smiling when the room finally looked untouched. I place the chair at the end of the bed- a reminder. 

I double check the woman’s guest room, frowning when I realize it’s the same room I killed Victoria in. I shake my head lightly and decide that I will stay in this room, the guest room closest to Brahms’s room. 

I pick the next guest room for her- a master with an attached bathroom that had a coat of dust. I spend the next hour cleaning it out- dusting, rearranging so she’d have a nightstand and dresser, getting out the nicest and comfiest clean sheets I could find. The room also had a small fireplace so I stock it with wood, grinning at the overall cleanliness and coziness of the room. 

With a nod I rushed downstairs, double checking all the rooms to make sure everything was ready. I go to the study, grabbing the letters and papers Mr.Heelshire had written before I gave him a peaceful and quick death. 

A letter to Malcolm stating his instruction. A suicide note stating why they killed themselves and stating that me and the new nanny were to split the estate if- and only if- I deemed her fit for her job. A letter for Brahms, an apology from his father who let too much happen to his innocent son. 

The plan was ready and my cards were in place, now all I have to do is wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we'll be throwing Greta in! What a freakin' babe


End file.
